sides of these high sheer craigs. Here the mother guillemot lays
her single egg, and here, on these narrow
shelves of precipitous
rock, she holds it in place with her foot until the
warmth of her
leg and overhanging body hatches it into life, when she takes it on
her back and flies down to the sea. Motherhood under difficulties,
it would seem, and the education of the baby guillemot is carried
forward on Spartan principles; for the moment he is out of the shell
he is swept
downward hundreds of feet and plunged into a cold ocean,
where he can sink or swim as
instinct serves him. In a life so
fraught with anxieties, exposures, and dangers, it is not strange
that the guillemots keeps up a
ceaseless clang of excited
conversation, a very riot and
wrangle of altercation and argument
which the circumstances seem to
warrant. The
prospective father is
obliged to take turns with the
prospective mother, and hold the one
precious egg on the rock while she goes for a fly, a swim, a bite,
and a sup. As there are five hundred other parents on the same
rock, and the eggs look to be only a couple of inches apart, the
scene must be distracting, and I have no doubt we should find, if
statistics were gathered, that thousands of guillemots die of
nervous prostration.
Willie and I interpreted the clamour somewhat as follows:-
[Between parent birds.]
"I am going to take my foot off. Are you ready to put yours on?
Don't be clumsy! Wait a minute, I'm not ready. I'M NOT READY, I
TELL YOU! NOW!!"
[Between rival mothers.]
"Your egg is so close to mine that I can't breathe---"
"Move your egg, then, I can't move mine!"
"You're sitting so close, I can't stretch my wings."
"Neither can I. You've got as much room as I have."
"I shall tumble if you crowd me."
"Go ahead and tumble, then! There is plenty of room in the sea."
[From one father to another ceremoniously.]
"Pardon me, but I'm afraid I shoved your wife off the rock last
night."
"Don't mention it. I remember I shoved off your wife's mother last
year."
We walked among the tiny whitewashed low-roofed cots, each with its
silver-skinned fishes tacked invitingly against the door-frame to
dry, until we came to my favourite, the corner
cottage in the row.
It has beautiful narrow garden strips in front,--solid patches of
colour in sweet gillyflower bushes, from which the kindly housewife
plucked a nosegay for us. Her white columbines she calls `granny's
mutches'; and indeed they are not
unlike those fresh white caps.
Dear Robbie Burns, ten inches high in
plaster, stands in the sunny
window in a tiny box of blossoming plants surrounded by a miniature
green
picket fence. Outside, looming white among the gillyflowers,
is Sir Walter, and near him is still another and a larger bust on a
cracked
pedestal a foot high, perhaps. We did not recognise the
head at once, and asked the little woman who it was.
"Homer, the graund Greek poet," she answered
cheerily; "an' I'm to
have anither o' Burns, as tall as Homer, when my daughter comes hame
frae E'nbro'."
If the shade of Homer keeps
account of his
earthly triumphs, I think
he is proud of his place in that
humble Scotchwoman's gillyflower
garden, with his head under the drooping petals of granny's white
mutches.
What do you think her `mon' is called in the village! John o' Mary!
But he is not alone in his
meekness, for there are Jock o' Meg,
Willie o' Janet, Jem o' Tibby, and a dozen others. These primitive
fishing-villages are the places where all the
advanced women ought
to
congregate, for the wife is head of the house; the
accountant,
the treasurer, the auditor, the
chancellor of the
exchequer; and
though her husband does catch the fish for her to sell, that is
accounted
apparently as a detail too
trivial for notice.
When we passed Mary's
cottage on our way to the sands next day,
Burns's head had been
accidentally broken off by the children, and
we felt as though we had lost a friend; but Scotch
thrift, and
loyalty to the dear Ploughman Poet, came to the
rescue, and when we
returned, Robert's
plaster head had been glued to his body. He